around Pine Brook, a model alpine village belonging to the forest bureau, to hunt for wild bees. As we walked, suddenly I threw back my head and called, “Dad, do you think there’s a flying squirrel in that there tree hole?”
Father looked up and smiled with pride. Softly, he told me, “Watch and learn!”
He tiptoed up and knocked lightly on the trunk. A flying squirrel popped its head out and looked around with a suspicious look on its face. It was trying to find out who had woken it up. Its vigilant eyes took in the surroundings.
I eased myself behind a tree, but by the time I had found myself a hiding place, the squirrel had disappeared into its hiding place. By then, Father had managed to find a branch with an offshoot. He took off his pants – no need to be shy! – tied the pantlegs together, and fitted the branch through the belt loops. If you haven’t brought a net with you, you can make one. I was impressed.
I was also amused: there was Father in his old yellow rubber boots and shabby underpants. He looked so comical.
But he was deadly serious. He moved slowly and softly. It seemed like the whole forest was watching Father’s every move. He approached the hole in the tree and covered it with the opening of his makeshift net, hit the trunk with his machete, and waited. And waited. But after the longest time, no flying squirrel had come flying out. Father asked me to hit the trunk hard with the axe. Still no response. All we could hear was the echo of the axe in the valley. Then he said, “Oh! This flying squirrel has definitely gone to school. He probably finished elementary.”
No sooner had he finished speaking, the flying squirrel found another way out of the tree. It flew across a ravine, settling itself in a tree on the other side. We realized we had been tricked by the thickest animal in the forest. Father climbed the tree and found that the flying squirrel was so incredibly smart it had installed a back door, an escape route in the event of attack.
Father shook his head and said, “This squirrel didn’t just graduate from elementary. I think it finished secondary school and has gone on to college. Otherwise how could it be so clever?” Father untied his trouser trap.
“Next time, I will catch it, somehow,” Father vowed before blocking the back door with underbrush and hiding the branch to use when we returned.
“Dad, is there really a college for flying squirrels?”
“Yes, there sure is. They all attend their classes at night.” I didn’t get it, so Father went on to explain, “They go to night school because they’re nocturnal. They often get together for midnight cram sessions on the principles of survival. Fleeing and hiding from eagles are compulsory credits. Outwitting hunters is an advanced elective.”
The next time Father asked if I wanted to go hunting with him, I immediately agreed. Of course I wanted to go! Father had prepared the hunting implements. This time we were ready for that sneaky flying squirrel. This time we’d get him.
We walked a long time, so long that it was after noon before we returned to where we’d faced off with the squirrel who had lived to fight another day. We moved slowly, stepping so softly it seemed the flying squirrel had not noticed our arrival. Father told me to keep an eye on the squirrel, tracking where it went, while he found the stick. When he did, he made the same rough and ready trouser net, stood under the tree hole, and, slowly and softly, held the opening of the net over the hole. Whereupon I walloped the trunk with the axe. But no flying squirrel came flying out.
“Dad, hasn’t the flying squirrel come back yet?” I asked.
“It’s possible!” Father told me to knock harder. Still nothing.
Father had me hold the net while he climbed up the tree with kindling and grass in hand. “If we can’t scare it out, we’ll smoke it out.”
He crammed the cracks in the underbrush with which he had blocked the back door with the kindling and grass, lit it and blew hard to waft the heavy smoke into the hole. Soon it was coming out of the other hole, the front door. But still the squirrel – a true squatter – refused to budge!
Father was truly flummoxed. Then he discovered that it had already found another hiding place, even higher up, another hollow in the same tree with another opening to the outside. It was curled up inside this hollow with its nose poking out, so that it wouldn’t inhale any of the smoke from Father’s fire. The only way Father knew was because he saw its nose.
The third entrance was too high up, no way Father was climbing that far. That was it! He’d had enough. He would just cut down the tree down with his saw. He sealed the first entrance – the front door – to the squirrel’s den we had discovered with branches and mud. Now the squirrel was really trapped.
Father said, “This is the smartest flying squirrel I have ever hunted. I think it has not only graduated from college but also studied abroad. Otherwise, how could it know that I would come back to catch it? It’s so smart to find a tree with two connected hollows and three entrances, a front door, a back door, and a side door kind of like an escape hatch.”
That night, Father went to tell his father how he had finally managed to catch the flying squirrel. My grandfather said, “That flying squirrel was nearly as smart as a hunter! Lucky you caught it, or it would have shared its experience with its kind, making life all the harder for us hunters. You can imagine what humiliation it would have been for us to be outsmarted by a highlander.”
Father ran a college of his own, a hunter school, where you majored in hunting philosophy. The description for one of the required courses was as follows: “Treat animals as you would human beings and imagine that you are an animal, so you will understand their habits and their speech.”
When you can understand what the flying squirrels are saying, you can listen in on the college classes they hold at night, not just in order to get the better of them, but also in order to learn to respect them. I eventually figured out that Father was just joking when he said the flying squirrel was the stupidest animal in the forest. I realized he went to the forest in all humility, for it was there that he himself had been schooled in the principles of survival.
I’m so grateful Father took me hunting when I was just a boy, and I’ll never forget the way he respected the creatures of nature. I’ve never seen the flying squirrel college, but I believe that the squirrels must go to a school very much like the one my father ran for me and like the one that I have been running for others – a place to learn the hunter’s philosophy, an attitude of respect for everything in the realm of nature.
The Mountain Boar School
I could talk your ears off telling stories about hunting with my father. But if I had to sum up his hunting philosophy, which he was trying to teach me by taking me hunting, I would put it like this: relate to each creature in nature like it is a fellow person.
Maybe because I was naughty and found it hard to sit still when I was young, adults were sometimes not that happy to see me coming around, and I was the first kid they thought of if something went wrong. If someone’s house got broken into or something went missing, my father would hear about it, and I would get a licking. It did not matter whether I had done it or not – all that mattered was that it was the sort of thing people thought I might do.
Father was afraid of me getting in trouble and giving his fellow villagers even more to complain about, so on weekends and holidays he would never leave me to my own devices. He would take me to the hunting ground, not just to teach me to hunt. I didn’t like weekends and holidays. When I was in elementary school, the days I liked the
